High Stakes
by LadyofDodge
Summary: "As the redhead squared her shoulders, the third occupant of the shack lifted huge hands bound by his own irons and tugged the big Stetson lower on his forehead."  Originally written as a challenge story in which M and K are pitted against each other.


**High Stakes**

"I don't need two hostages—too much trouble. So only one of ya is gonna be ridin' outta here with me." He scraped at his snaggled tooth with an encrusted pocket knife. "The other one—well, be a pity if it's the lady here, but…" His voice trailed off and he shrugged beefy shoulders as he ticked his head toward the lone woman in the room. "Makes no difference to me which of ya lives and which one dies." His laugh fell flat and leaden in the vermin infested shack. "Besides, it'll be a lot more entertainin' to watch ya choose yer own fate." He shuffled a dirty and dog-eared deck of cards in grimy hands, then placed it on the rough plank that served as a table. He slid the blade of his knife along the woman's jaw. "Cut 'em, Red."

As the redhead squared her shoulders, the third occupant of the shack lifted huge hands bound by his own irons and tugged the big Stetson lower on his forehead. From beneath the brim, he lifted eyes filled with fury to the scratched and bruised face of the woman tethered to the chair across from him. In spite of his inner rage, his blue eyes softened and he felt his lips begin to twitch in almost a smile as he watched one slender hand fastidiously span the filthy deck.

The voice of their captor broke the moment. "Awright, high card gets to choose yer fate. Guess ya might say yer life's at stake." He guffawed at his own joke. "Low card can name the game. You first, lawman." He spat out the title as if it were hemlock on his tongue.

Shot, fevered, shackled and gagged, the man with the badge on his chest again raised his hands and awkwardly lifted the top card from the deck. The one-eyed jack of spades stared mockingly back at him, and, for a moment, he took heart. There were only three possible cards that could trump it, and the odds of her drawing one of them were… _Damn!_ He squeezed his eyes shut as an ancient memory invaded his mind. _"Cowboy, you have no idea what I'd be willing to do for you."_ It had been playful pillow talk—or so he had thought at the time. Even as her long ago words assaulted his brain, he watched through slitted eyes as she slid a neatly manicured nail beneath the next card and flipped it over.

The king of hearts.

Again he swore to himself. He hadn't seen a thing, hadn't detected the sleight of hand, but he knew what she had done.

"So, what's it gonna be, Red? Whadda ya wanta play for? Life…or death? It's yer call." The squat little man jerked the foul gag from her tender mouth.

He watched as she continued to sit, poised and silent, her face and demeanor revealing nothing. He knew her—knew not only her beautiful body, but also her tender heart, her gentle soul and her amazing mind, and he knew the whirlwind of thoughts twisting like tumbleweeds behind the casual façade. He wanted desperately to help her, wanted to telegraph the right choice to her, but he couldn't. There was no right choice.

"Time's up, Red. I ain't got all day."

He watched her draw in a breath, the smooth, ivory skin of her breast rising slightly above the open "V" of her white cotton shirtwaist. Her voice was soft, but sure. "Life. I choose life."

He breathed a mental sigh of relief. It was the choice he wanted her to make, but he hadn't been sure she would do it. He was proud of her for sacrificing him to save herself.

And then, through his fevered haze, he heard her speak again, her voice stronger than before. "For him."

His heart thumped in his chest. _No, Kitty, no! For God's sake, save yourself._

"Ya sure? Yer willin' to die to save a stinkin' lawman?"

He watched her nod without hesitation, her sapphire eyes gentle and serene as she looked across the table. "Yes."

The vile rag was again secured around her mouth, and he watched the gunman turn back to him. "Okay, lawman, name the game. You'll play for best two outta three. What's your pleasure?"

With his own gag momentarily loosened, the big marshal replied, "To pound your sorry ass to a bloody pulp."

Even as he saw a warning flash in the blue eyes across the table, the butt of the rifle caught him across the face, tearing a gash in his cheek and snapping his neck backward. Pain seared up the side of his head, causing his vision to blur and his ears to ring.

"Ya just lost yer chance to choose, lawman." The gunman spat on the floor as he replaced the gag. "Open yer trap again, and you'll lose that life the lady here seems to think is worth savin.'" He turned and slammed the cards down in front of the redhead. "You call it."

Looking the man she loved straight in the eye, she hesitated only a fraction of a second before replying. "Stud. Five card."

His foggy mind slowly registered what she had done—chosen a game based not on any degree of skill, but on the strength and luck of the cards themselves. But the name of the game didn't matter. He knew he was no match for her—never had been, never would be. And not just at cards.

He shook his head in an effort to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He was barely hanging on to consciousness, but he needed to play out this hideous game, needed to find a way to save her from her own selfless bet. And from Pugg Parker. A WANTED poster of a younger man slammed into his mind. Give the man on that poster a shave, age him by about a decade, and the Texas bandit known as "The Highwayman" was sitting in front of him, an odd sort of gunman and thief known for waylaying his prey on a lonely road. He would accost the occupants of a wagon or buggy, usually a courting couple, rob them of money and jewelry, shackle and gag them, and then arrange a bizarre bet in which there could be no winner, all the while holding them at gunpoint. Mentally, he shook his head again. He had to help her. But, constrained and gagged and rapidly growing weaker, if there was a way, he couldn't see it.

_The day had started out pleasant enough. Crisp and clear, and with no prisoners in the cells and no thirsty drovers or drummers in town, Kitty suggested an afternoon drive through the pristine whiteness of the Dodge City countryside. As Jingle, the little carriage mare, deftly picked her way across the frozen ground, he glanced down at his lady's radiant face and smiled. "This was a good idea, Kitty."_

"_Hmmm, thanks for humoring me, Matt. It's just about perfect, isn't it?" _

_He gathered her closer against his left side and brushed her temple with warm lips. "Yeah, it is."_

_The shot resounded in the frigid air, the bullet hitting him high on the right shoulder, causing him to lose control of the reins as he slumped against her body. She screamed and reached across him, grabbing for the straps in a desperate attempt to keep the startled mare from bolting and careening them into the icy creek. _

_The bandit appeared out of nowhere, a dingy blue bandana hiding his face, the eyes above it bloodshot and crazed. He grabbed at the bridle, effectively halting the horse's escape. "Not so fast there, horse. I ain't ready fer 'em to die yet. I got plans."_

"_He needs help." Kitty blurted. "If you don't want us to die yet, you need to help us—help him."_

_Intent on playing out his perverted idea of fun, he tied them, hand-cuffed them, and forced them at gunpoint toward the shack, where Kitty tended to the wound as best she could, cleaning it with snow, whiskey and the hem of her petticoat. _

"Deal." The command crackled in the empty room.

With difficulty, he focused again and watched as she gingerly picked up the deck, encrusted with God-only-knew-what, shuffled and dealt two cards across the wooden plank. One up, one down. The up card was the queen of spades.

She dropped two cards in front of her own place. The card showing on the table was the seven of spades.

The gunman looked from one to the other. "Aint'cha gonna look at them hole cards?"

Ignoring him, she dealt another card to the man across the table. Queen of clubs.

"Pair a queens." The gunman called the two cards in front of the marshal.

Her own card was the three of spades.

"Double spades," he called again, as if they both had been rendered blind as well as mute.

She slid another card across the so-called table. The six of diamonds.

And the card she dropped in front of her own place was the four of spades.

"Possible flush fer the lady. Might even make it a straight 'un."

Another grimy card crossed the table. Ten of hearts.

The card she placed in front of herself was the ten of clubs.

"There goes yer flush, little lady." The gunman leered. "Big man's got ya beat showin'. Let's see what else ya got."

She turned over her hole card, revealing the three of hearts.

"Treys. Ain't much. Ya ain't gonna save the marshal here with cards like that. Okay, big man, got anything to go with them ladies?"

Head lolling against his chest, he flipped over the card that had remained face down on the table. It was the four of hearts, not that it made any difference.

"First game to the marshal. Looks like you might have to die, big man. Too bad I already got yer money and yer jewelry. Be a lot more interestin' if ya was playin' fer somethin' more important than a stinkin' lawman's life." He gathered the cards and handed them across the table. "Yer deal."

Taking the cards in his hands, he attempted an awkward shuffle, but the movement sent a fiery pain coursing along his arm, numbing his fingers and sending the cards scattering off the plank and onto the dirt floor.

"Hell, this'll take all day if you try to do it. The lady can deal agin." He brought his face close. "That is, if it's awright with you, lawman."

Still grimacing with pain, he nodded his consent. The last time he said 'no' to Parker, Kitty had suffered for it. He wouldn't make that mistake again. The second round began to play out in front of him as she again splayed her fingers across the grungy deck, shuffled it and dealt two cards—one down, one up. The card facing up was the ten of clubs.

She dropped two cards in front of her own place. The four of diamonds and the hidden hole card.

Another card face up to him. Four of clubs.

Another card face up to her. Ten of diamonds.

The gunman looked from one to the other. "Doncha never look at them hole cards?"

She slid another card across the table. Ace of clubs.

And dropped another in front of herself. A jack. And a diamond.

The outlaw fairly quivered with excitement. "Mebbe two flushes comin' up."

Still ignoring him, she calmly dealt the last card. A six. Of clubs.

Her own final card was an eight. And another diamond.

"This ain't possible." He was almost salivating with anticipation. "Turn 'em over."

The marshal slid his card to the edge of the plank with a long index finger, then flicked it over. Another ace. Of hearts. He had lost his flush.

"Pair a aces. Not too bad. Okay, Red, let's see if ya made it."

She daintily flipped the hole card over. It was only a deuce. But it was the deuce of diamonds. She had made her flush.

"Well, now, ya got a lotta luck, little lady. You jest might win. 'Course, if ya win—ya die. So mebbe ya ain't so lucky after all." He cackled, again enjoying his own joke.

As she reached for the cards again, the outlaw swung the rifle from side to side, pointing it first at one and then at the other. "You two ain't very entertainin'. I say we need a side bet here to keep it interestin'. Ain't no more money, lawman, but we still got the lady here. Tell ya what—she wins, she still dies. That wuz her choice, and I'm holdin' her to it. But let's sweeten the pot a bit—you win and ya get to do 'er before I kill you. She wins, I do 'er first, kill 'er later. You can watch if ya like."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment against the all-too-vivid image that bombarded his mind. He listened to the rhythmic sound of the cards brushing against each other, and he knew she was shuffling the last hand, the hand that would determine their fate—shuffling as calmly and leisurely as if she were engaged in a casual game among friends at the Long Branch. And then he heard Parker speak again.

"Get on with it, Red. No need to wear 'em out. And I say yer playin' draw this time—that's real poker—and fer all the marbles. Now deal."

He opened his eyes, watching her closely. For one of the few times—maybe the only time—in his life, he couldn't interpret the look she sent him across the pocked table. The first card slithered beyond the look, and she dealt the hand back and forth, a card to him, a card to herself, until they each had five cards face down in front of them.

"Okay, pick 'em up."

He lifted the cards and painfully arranged them in his shackled hands. Five of clubs, seven of diamonds, eight of hearts, ten of diamonds, and, lastly, the queen of diamonds. He pressed his lips together in pain as well as in thought. He had to win, even at the risk of certain death for himself. He couldn't allow this crazed maniac to take her, then kill her. But neither could he die and leave her alone and at the mercy of a deranged killer. He watched Parker closely. Watched for a way, an opportunity, the slightest waver…anything that could give him—or her—an edge. He watched as she arranged her own hand with graceful fingers. He had no way of knowing the cards she held, but when she indicated the need to draw three, he assumed she might be holding a pair—of something. Resignedly, he discarded the club and the heart and raised two fingers, indicating his desire to draw two new cards from the deck.

"Look at 'em."

He slid the new cards into his hand and swore to himself at what he saw. He had nothing, four diamonds and a heart, not even a lowly pair. From beneath the brim of his hat, he saw her do the same, a faint smile touching her eyes as she glanced at the new cards.

"Show me."

He laid down his hand and she did the same. Buried among the other cards he could see the matching crowned heads of a pair of kings. It was over, and she had won, just as he had known she would. Head pounding with pain, fever and rage, he looked at her, his blue eyes filled with love and remorse, telling her all that his bound lips could not.

"So, Red, you still willin' to die for him?" Parker released the gag from her mouth.

She turned to the man who had owned her heart for fifteen years and gave him a gentle smile that said, _"It's all right, Cowboy. I love you." _Then she spoke aloud to their captor. "Let's get this over with."

Cursing his own inadequacy, he tried desperately to rise from the chair, tried to help her, but he must have passed out, for next thing he knew, the gunman was climbing to his feet, buttoning his pants. He watched Parker jerk her up after him, step back a few paces, aim and…

"NOOOOOOOO!" The anguished roar ripped from his throat without warning, simultaneous with the crack of the rifle, synchronized with the crimson splash that saturated the white shirtwaist and sprayed across the alabaster rise of her bosom.

**XXXXXXXX**

Whether it was the sudden loud snap of the log breaking in the fireplace or the panicked, strangled scream that jolted her out of a sound sleep, she would never know. She opened her eyes to find him sitting upright in the bed, chest heaving, big body trembling and drenched in sweat. She rose to her knees and knelt behind him, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his damp back. "Matt, it's Kitty. You're having a bad dream. You need to wake up."

She heard the choked sob that accompanied his words. "No. Kit…Kitty's…gone. My fault. I couldn't...couldn't save…"

The pain and defeat in his voice brought tears to her eyes, and her lips brushed the myriad scars on his back in a ritual she hoped would be familiar to him. "I'm fine, Matt. I'm right here. Open your eyes and see for yourself."

Quivering and unsure, he touched her hand where it rested against his stomach. "Kitty?" His voice shook, and he turned his head to the side in an effort to see her face. He held his breath as she leaned forward, red mane cascading across one shoulder, her blue eyes searching his face. His lips flickered in a smile of recognition. "Kitty."

"Yes, it's me."

"You're really…you're all right?"

"I'm fine, and so are you. No one's hurting us." Her hand caressed his thigh.

He glanced down at the hand on his leg and covered it with his own. Still shaking, he reached his other arm behind him and pulled her around to face him. "It was…" He shook his head as if to clear it. "It was so real."

"Want to tell me about it?"

He shook his head again. "No." His arm tightened around her. "I just want to hold you."

"S'fine with me." She smiled and scooted backward on the bed, pulling him with her and into her arms. She felt him nestle against her side, his big body relaxing slightly as he buried his face in the soft hollow of her neck.

"I…I'm sorry I woke you, Kitty, and I'm sorry…well...I'm sorry it happened."

She drew his shaggy head against her heart, pressing a soft kiss into the graying curls. "It's all right, Matt. It must have been some dream, though. You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"I'm sure…but you can clear one thing up for me." He hesitated and then continued. "We _did_ go for a buggy ride this afternoon, right?"

Cheek pressed against his, she nodded, answering cautiously, "Y-e-e-e-s-s…we did. Don't you remember?"

"I do, but…" He blew out a breath. "By golly, Kitty, this was so real I'm not exactly sure where the real part ends and where the dream starts."

"Maybe I can help you with that."

"Yeah." He sat up against the headboard and drew her against his chest. "We were out near the Campbell place." He paused and smiled at the memory of Kitty cuddled all warm and soft against his side. "We heard a shot, and then Rufus Campbell came out of the thicket along the creek. Said he found a wounded deer in there and put a shot in it to put it out of its misery. He was heading back to his farm for the wagon." As he spoke, his breathing became easier as he again saw old Rufus, rifle in hand, blue wool scarf wrapped around his neck and pulled up over the lower half of his face to ward off the cold.

"Uh, hunh. That all happened."

He was quiet for so long she thought he had fallen asleep, and then he chuckled. "But I'm pretty sure I didn't play cards with you."

She laughed out loud. "Well, we did play, but we've never called it 'cards' before."

"Kitty!"

Even in the dark, she knew he was blushing…and she knew he was feeling better, too. The tension was gone from his voice, and the warm hand stroking her back was steady and strong once again. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Well, yeah, but it doesn't have anything to do with the dream." He gave her a devilish grin and wrapped one long arm around her, sliding them back down onto the pillows. He leaned over and gently kissed her mouth. "I really am sorry, Kitty…and thank you…for everything."

"It's all right, Cowboy. I love you."

He lifted his head and stared down at her in surprise. "That's…that's exactly what you told me before…in the dream. How could…?"

She smiled up at him. "Simple. That's the part that was real—very real. I _do_ love you, Matt. And that's something no dream or nightmare can ever change. It's the one thing that nothing or no one can ever take away from us." She drew his face back down to hers and captured his mouth with her own in a very long and very satisfying kiss that wiped away everything bad, leaving only the good, leaving only the love.

Well into the dawn she continued to lie beneath him, holding him, relishing the feel of his stubbled jaw against the softness of her breast. She had long ago lost count of the number of nights he twisted and tossed beside her—sweating, mumbling, trembling, crying out in his sleep—nights she had held him, offering the comfort of her arms, her words, her body, her love. But the monsters, the demons would always be there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, as much a part of him as the limp in his step or the scars on his back. At least tonight she had helped him to smile.


End file.
